The night-time temperature here in Southern Canada, aka Minnesota, continues to drop; and I’ve noticed that I’ve started doing what I will no doubt do until spring.
I’ve developed a twitch.
I didn’t notice it at first, this need to move. But there it was. And once I’d noticed, what could I do but adjust it to the music?
Pips, my butt.
That's when I decided, there in the dark, that I would make an outstanding back-up dancer.
It is 6:20 a.m. on a Tuesday and already I have the moves of a young William Hung. If I keep this up, who knows where I’ll be at noon?
The truth is that the dancing, spinning, marching in place that those of us in the cooler climes do is not for the faint of heart. It requires sturdy footwear, a cool head, and an even cooler temperature. I’ve seen whole bus stops appear to march in unison. They’ll deny it – who wouldn’t deny it? – but it’s true.
The best part is that with the mornings now in the mid-40s (Fahrenheit, of course), we have a further drop of a mere 60 degrees to look forward to this winter. Eyelashes will stick together, ice balls will form in the nostrils, and somewhere, someone’s toes will freeze, turn black, and be surgically removed.
And now that I look at that more closely, I have to ask myself: why am I living here?
The truth is that everything I know is here: the people, the food, the streets, the language. I know what it means when someone says “That’s interesting” (it’s probably not), I know what it means when someone I don’t know smiles at me (“hello, I mean you no harm”), and I know when the bars close (2:00 a.m.).
Still. It seems I’ve taken up light marching in the mornings.
And it seems I’ll be doing it until spring.
Princesses of the New Age
2 hours ago